


The Trip

by ShyThrush



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Ciri/Mistle - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Geralt Has Friends, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Gift Fic, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Leshens (The Witcher), Major Character Injury, Original Male Characters - Freeform, Princesses, Protective Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Pushing Oneself Beyond Reasonable Limits, Second-Hand Guilt, Tired Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Which took me way too long, Worried Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Written in Sapkowski's style, bookfic, mentioned only in passing - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-19 00:23:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29866338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShyThrush/pseuds/ShyThrush
Summary: After meeting a friend on the coastal road, Geralt is coerced into taking a contract to save a king's daughter from a gruesome fate. However, in his hunt for Ciri, he has left many things by the wayside.Written for Humbae's prompt to explore the ideas of being pushed past sensible limits and yet still being judged insufficient. Also written entirely in Sapkowski's style.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Mistle, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Humbae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humbae/gifts).



> Because of the stylistic choices here, this fic purely book-verse, though people who've just seen the show or the games should be alright. I definitely have found writing this guy an incredible challenge but a tonne of fun, and I hope you all enjoy it!

The witcher stood and gazed out across the sea as night began to fall. His hands were fisted tightly, one around the pommel of a dagger, and the other in the fabric of his shirt, but beyond that, there was no break in his stoicism. Nothing showed that he was anything other than perfectly serene, taking in the views of the seaside one more time before getting back on his horse and turning inland, towards Cintra.

This was, however, not the case. This witcher was not merely taking in the views, but waiting for a contact. They had agreed upon the meeting place weeks ago, and while he was not particularly fond of sunset rendezvous, there were more important things at stake than his pride. He had even arrived early, taken time to compose himself and clean up a bit. His white hair was tied away from his face, flyaways tamed and gathered back in a ponytail at the back of his head. He had even chosen to trade out his customary simple shirt and pants for a long leather coat that he had bought in Oxenfurt after the destruction of the previous one at the hands of some overanxious zealots. Underneath, he wore soft deerskin pants and boots, and a white shirt. Someone had told him once that wearing all black made him look like death personified. And while he was not inclined to agree, the witcher had put aside his own preferences for the sake of keeping up appearances.

As the sun continued to dip beneath the horizon, his impatience became more apparent. He shifted from one foot to the other and whistled for his horse. She came over and bumped her head into his shoulder, and he whispered something in her ear before turning and beginning to pace up and down the small section of grass before the great stone road marker that he had been assured would be the meeting place come sunset. His patience was wearing thin.

The white-haired man was just beginning to process of swinging himself up onto his chestnut mare’s back, muttering irately under his breath, when a voice pierced the seaside wind.

“Geralt of Rivia! It’s been too long!”

The witcher winced at the sudden, booming voice and turned suddenly. His mare snorted with displeasure, eyes rolling, and she sidestepped off the path as he swung down from her saddle, boots making a small puff of dirt as he landed on the ground again.

“Kristjan.”

“Oh, come now! That’s no way to greet an old friend. Wipe that sour look off your face.”

“I’ve been here for hours,” the witcher said, looking irate, “We were meant to meet at sunset. By my metric, it’s nearing midnight.”

“Ah. Some business took precedence in the capital. You’ll forgive me my lapse, won’t you? For old time’s sake?”

The witcher, Geralt, seemed to consider it for a moment. He cocked a brow and then shrugged, recognizing that there was little he could do to change the situation now.

“I don’t have anywhere else to be. You said you had a contract for me?”

Kristjan came to join the witcher at the edge of the cliff. He had dramatically red hair which flared out ridiculously from his face, nearly doubling the circumference of his head and flaming in the moonlight. His pale skin and eyes caught the watery light of the stars in the same way that Geralt’s did, making them a matched pair of blades, one smooth and deadly, the other unrefined and chaotic, and just as intimidating for it. They stood for a moment, until Geralt, having had enough, turned on the other man.

“I’ve no patience for these dramatics. Do you have a job for me or not?” His voice was a low snarl, and Kristjan took a step back. Whether it was subconscious or calculated was unclear. In any case, he cleared his throat nervously, hands fiddling with the clasp on his belt.

“Yes…I’ve a job. But I’m not sure it’s the kind you’ll want to take.”

The witcher let out a deeply impatient sight and took another step forward. His black coat flapped ominously as the wind whipped up from the sea, and Kristjan gave a little chuckle and began talking very quickly.

“Lady Asdis is set to inherit a significant amount of lands from her father, King Ingolfur. At least, he calls himself king of a small fief a little to the east of here; the land is actually in dispute with Cintra at the moment. But politics aside, Asdis’ land is infested with some sort of strange ghoul or spectre. Men have tried to kill the thing, but no one has even made it out alive to tell what the beast might be. Ingolfur is desperate; he needs Asdis to marry to legitimize his hold over his land and kingship. But no lordling in his right mind will marry a disputed princess with lands infested with monsters, no matter how significant her dowry. And so I was hired to find a witcher who could dispose of his problem. As well as provide some…additional protection for his daughter. Apparently there have been several assassination attempts.”

“Where are her lands?”

“The borders of the marshland past Verden.”

The witcher scoffed.

“There you have your problem. No one with any sort of impetus to survive chooses to settle in the marshlands by Verden. It’s a breeding ground for all things foul. Not even witchers can save people from their own stupidity. It’s against our code to travel into those marshes.”

“Ah, you can’t pull the wool over my eyes, old friend. I believe I remember a night, after one too many drinks, when you confided in me that the witchers’ code is a crock of bullshit, that you use to your advantage when you have your own reasons for refusing to do something. Your loose tongue has betrayed you.”

Dark eyebrows drew into a grimace, and Geralt looked for a moment both supremely irritated and embarrassed, before he schooled his expression. He suddenly found himself feeling extremely grateful that he was unable to blush.

“Pox on it, Kristjan. You know I never get involved in political affairs. Witchers don’t take sides in such matters. It only complicates things. I’m not a bodyguard, and I’m not here to clean up the poor decisions of other men. There are people suffering the whole Continent over. Asdis and Ingolfur should count themselves lucky they aren’t starving or puking up the bloody plague all over their finery.”

Kristjan winced sympathetically and rubbed a bit at his back. Geralt caught the surreptitious gesture, but knew better than to enquire after it. The other man was a warrior in his own right, and had probably seen and done far more than he cared to admit since the last time their paths had crossed. The war had been kind to none of them.

“The King would have you whipped for your insolence.”

“I’m not his vassal.”

“Do you think that matters to him? He’s a king whose sovereignty is being questioned daily. More important than that, he’s a made whose honour has been brought into question. He’ll flog anyone who dares to go against him.”

“This is supposed to make me want to work for him?”

“It’s supposed to show you that you don’t have a choice. I was given firm orders to hunt you down and bring you to Ingolfur in irons if you refused. And don’t think that just because we’re old friends I won’t do it. There’s much at stake for me here as well.”

The witcher sighed, resigned. He didn’t bother expending the mental energy on wondering how Kristjan had ended up in Ingolfur’s employ. The man was a notorious gambler with even more notorious bad luck. He was constantly criss-crossing the Continent, killing and capturing people to repay his debts.

“I’ll not force your hand,” Geralt said softly, raising his own in submission, “Lead on. But don’t expect that I’ll do anything more than listen to this king’s request. He has asked me to meet with him, but made no more demands on my time past that.”

“Not demands,” Kristjan muttered under his breath, in a way that would have been inaudible to a human, “Just expectations.”

The witcher heard, but chose to make no comment. His coat was flapping in the wind, and his shirt was beginning to itch. The white cotton was a different type than he normally wore, and, being a creature of habit, he found his skin prickling uncomfortably at the unwelcome change. He circled his arms awkwardly, swung himself onto the back of his mare, and waited for Kristjan to mount up onto his bay stallion. The beast was enormous, with a long mane and wide nostrils that steamed in the cool sea air. Geralt thought that the whole image was a bit excessive, but Kristjan had always had a flair for the dramatic. And he had probably won the horse in a game of Gwent.

“Lead on.”

With a wild grin, the red-haired man wheeled his mount and kicked it into a stretching gallop along the cliffside path. Behind him, the witcher placed a hand on his horse’s neck, feeling rather apologetic. He had no particular interest in thundering along the coast; his mare was tired. But Kristjan wouldn’t wait for him, and neither would Ingolfur, apparently. He urged her into a gallop, and followed the other man across the cliffs, taking care to avoid stones and holes by the light of the moon.

* * *

Several hours in, the witcher was beginning to question the wisdom of coming with Kristjan at all. He could have refused, definitely. Even fought off the other man, convinced him to leave. His friendship with the assassin had made him far more willing to go along with his plan, and hours into a headlong gallop along the seaside, Geralt was feeling a burning pain along the inside of his thighs. His saddle had been destroyed by the acidic venom of an endrega a few weeks ago, and he had yet to replace it with one of equal quality. He winced at the thought of dismounting and walking about in such a state.

Ahead of him, Kristjan let out a wild shout, his hair blowing back in the dawn light and his teeth bared in a fearsome expression. His horse was covered with sweat, foam dripping from its gaping mouth. Geralt was almost of a mind to tell him to stop, to give the poor creature a break, but from his experiences with the mercenary he knew that such a suggestion would only be met with mockery. He sighed, slowed his own mare to a canter.

“Easy, Roach,” he muttered, “Can’t be that much longer now. Only an idiot would push his horse so hard with many hours still to ride.”

She snorted, tossed her head, and Geralt patted her with a gloved hand. She looked just as tired and uncomfortable as he felt, and he knew they were both eager to have their journey come to an end. Not even the gentle heat of the sunrise would do much to soothe their aching muscles if Kristjan didn’t call a halt soon.

The mercenary had also slowed his stallion to a canter now, pulling up beside the witcher with a wicked expression on his face. He was truly wild, Geralt though; as much as witchers were always posited as beasts without feelings, Kristjan was as close a man to this description as he had ever met. He was mad, truly. It was part of why Geralt tolerated his company.

“What’s the matter, old man,” Kristjan mocked, spittle flying from between his teeth and his face reddened with the effort of controlling a mount as wild as he was, “Can’t keep up on that nag of yours?”

Had Kristjan been someone else and the circumstances different, the witcher would have considered drawing his blade at such a comment, if only to intimidate. He settled on a glowering expression, and the mercenary laughed wildly.

“All in good fun, Geralt. Come, we’re nearly there. Think your horse can make the final push?”

“Unlike you, I’m not in the habit of running my mounts into the ground.” Geralt hawked up a bit of spit and cleared it over Roach’s left flank. He was panting from exertion; a long night’s ride taking its toll.

“Ah, come now!”

The witcher bit his lip, frustrated, but Kristjan relented, and the two of them slowed to a trot. In the distance, a large, gray fortress was beginning to take shape on the horizon. Geralt doubted his companion could see it yet; his vision was far superior, not only in the night. The place looked grim and dull; a slow drizzle of rainfall beginning to take shape doing little to help the witcher’s mood. Even the ground squelched under Roach’s hooves; moss doing a poor job to cover the loamy, moist turf.

“I assume Ingolfur will take responsibility for the costs if my horse turns a shoe in this mess?”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Kristjan muttered, “He doesn’t take on any costs without a violent amount of coercion.”

“You sound like you speak from experience.”

“Maybe I do.”

Sensing the mercenary’s reticence to talk about it, the witcher raised a hand from his reins and left his line of questioning where it was. Immediately, Kristjan’s jovial smile returned.

“Ah, I can see the fortress in the distance. We’ve nearly arrived.”

Feeling rather relieved that he would soon have his feet on solid ground again, Geralt urged his mount on a just a small bit faster. Kristjan kept pace, his stallion tossing its head theatrically. Privately, the witcher entertained the notion that all the beast would need was frosty breath and reddened eyes to be a mount of the Wild Hunt. He would not put it past Kristjan to end up indebted and enslaved to the black riders, either. Perhaps he was merely preparing himself for the inevitable.

Such thoughts entertained the witcher for the remainder of their ride to the fortress, during which Kristjan was oddly silent. As they approached, though, Geralt immediately saw the reason for his sombre attitude. The ground about the base of the grey walls was marshy and slick beneath the horses’ hooves. The whole place stank of rot, and Geralt momentarily wrinkled his nose before he saw exactly what was causing the stench.

There were bodies everywhere. Strung up from the battlements, from posts in the wetlands, from the signpost marking the way to Cintra. They ranged in various stages of decomposition, some bloated and purple, barely recognizable as something that had once been human. But there were some that were still fresh as well, with porcelain skin and newly misted-over eyes. Some of them had been slashed at the throat, nearly decapitated. Others were disemboweled, intestines still hanging from their stomachs, pale pink and buzzing with flies. A few had been burnt as well, scorched skin crackling like dry earth, or the crust on a poorly cooked pie. Geralt grimaced, brought up his gloved hand to cover his nose and mouth.

“This king is still unsure of why there are beasts converging upon his lands?” He asked sarcastically, poorly concealing the world-weary tone of his voice.

“All the people who’ve questioned his right to rule,” Kristjan said grimly, waving his hand in an expansive gesture at the fields of death, “Set outside the grey fortress as a warning for whosoever should come to challenge him.”

“Afraid monsters don’t normally heed such warnings. I can’t do anything about this, Kristjan. Not until he cleans up this mess. He’s no one to blame but himself for anything prowling along his borders, monstrous or otherwise.”

“I said the same,” Kristjan said tiredly, “But he insisted. Perhaps he’ll be more willing to listen to the word of an expert. I’d be careful how you put it though. Unless you want to end up on this side of the wall as well.”

The witcher showed no sign of emotion at the horrific though. He merely shrugged, keeping one hand covering his sensitive nose, and urged his mare along the marshy path towards the drawbridge of the castle. The whole thing was bleak, drizzly, the grey stones nearly blending in with the dark sky. No one appeared to be manning the walls, and the witcher squinted up at them, thinking perhaps that the soldiers had eluded his sight. But there were none. An odd thing, he thought, for a man who felt so threatened to have no men on his wall. Kristjan caught

the witcher’s inquisitive gaze, but quickly looked away, dismounted, walked up to the great wooden gates and banged on them hollowly. They boomed, echoing eerily in the quiet, velvety noise of the rain.

A small port snapped open, and a man with a dark mustache peered out.

“Who goes there?”

“Kristjan. Returning with the witcher to see his Majesty.”

“Enter.”

The port snapped shut again, a violent noise against the silence of the air. A moment later, a deep grinding issued from the bowels of the fortress, and the gates slowly began to swing open. Geralt kept a hand on Roach’s reins as she shied violently away from the noise. One of his hands made its way to her neck as well, where he rubbed in calming circles until the noise stopped issuing forth.

Kristjan led his stallion into the courtyard on foot, and Geralt followed still on horseback. He disliked entering a place where he clearly was outnumbered without at least presenting the image that he was prepared to defend himself. The courtyard was just as abandoned as the wall, though. Empty carts and bales of hay were scattered in the shadows, but for the most part it was made up of the same dull grey cobbles, with little rivulets of mud running between the grooves of the stone. Geralt swung his leg over Roach’s flank and landed on the ground with a wet squelch, wincing as his legs trembled and he steadied himself. Water leaked up through his socks and onto his feet, and he resisted the urge to strip off his boots and simply walk through the castle barefoot.

Kristjan was also having trouble regaining his balance, and they both stood for a moment, massaging their legs, regaining blood flow, before the red-haired doffed his hood and began making his way up a wooden set of stairs, beckoning for Geralt to follow.

“My horse?” He was unwilling to leave her out in the rain after such a long, strenuous ride.

“She’ll be tended to.”

Geralt looked about doubtfully; not even the man who had opened the portal was anywhere to be seen. Roach was soaked in sweat; salty lines travelling down her quivering, damp flanks.

“I’ll be back.” he muttered to her, wiping his gloves along her shoulder and giving her velvety nose a scratch. Geralt planned on returning to her sooner rather than later; he had little desire to help this king and there was very little the man would be able to do to convince him to stay. He had no patience for kings who slaughtered their own subjects, and even less for men who

couldn’t even be bothered to clean up the corpses they had created. Whatever monsters chose to prey on them, they had brought it upon themselves. Even the other inhabitants of this castle appeared to be few and far between. Smart, most likely, to have fled before they were disemboweled by their king or consumed by a ghoul.

Reluctantly, the witcher turned and followed Kristjan up the steps, which creaked under their combined weight. One hand fingered the dagger at his left hip, more out of habit than any immediate need to flay someone. There was enough of that going on here without his added aid, Geralt thought.

Once inside, the halls, like the rest of the fortress, were eerily deserted. The great vaulted ceilings made the place echo fiercely, and even the empty hallways had the sour tang of blood on the air. It covered the whole place like the miasmas Geralt often heard fanatics preaching about from street corners in the large cities. He usually paid them no mind, but now, inhaling death on each breath, he wondered if there was not a kernel of truth to what they said.

“This is where I’ll leave you,” Kristjan said when they reached the end of the cavernous hall, “May the good graces of Melitele go with you. And try not to let your tongue rule your head. Ingolfur is not a tolerant man.”

Resisting the urge to scoff, the witcher gave the other man a light slap across the shoulder.

“Old friend, this is far from the first royal I’ve insulted by my mere presence. And, in case it escaped your notice, my head is still firmly attached to my shoulders.”

“Despite several very near misses.”

The witcher cocked his head, just to let Kristjan know that the words muttered under his breath had not escaped Geralt’s attention. But it was likely the mercenary already knew that, and was more doing it out of habit or for effect.

“Try not to get yourself killed in there,” he said, wild blue eyes flashing, “I should like to swing a sword at your side again.”

The witcher hoped it didn’t come to that. He had no stomach for killing humans, even the ones who murdered their own kind, unless he had some sort of personal vendetta against them. Even then, it was rotten work, and dragged the already faltering name of his kind through the proverbial dirt. His brothers would have his head if he returned to Kaer Morhen this winter on the heels of yet another rumour. That was, he thought with a wry grimace, if Ingolfur didn’t take it first.

Ridding himself of such uneasy thoughts, the white-haired witcher turned to face another set of large wooden double doors, reinforced with iron brackets. There were two guards, one

stationed on either side of the door, and Geralt nodded by way of a greeting. They did not respond, though, instead heaving the doors open with little pomp or circumstance, paving the way for Geralt to enter the room. He stepped forwards, soft leather boots making no sound on the cobbles save for the light squelching. They were still very wet, and his feet were beginning to get very cold. He would need to find an inn with a bathing chamber after this. It was rare that he had the coin to afford such a luxury, but contracts along the coast had been lucrative and he was already eager to be on his way.

Tugging at the itchy seams of his shirt, he walked to the centre of the room, turning a slow circle with his hand on the hilt of his steel sword, trying to get his bearings. It was odd, Geralt thought, that he had not been disarmed. In fact, he had never been in the presence of a king without begrudgingly being forced to give over his swords first. And while it was a welcome change, he couldn’t help but wonder why. Either Ingolfur had seriously underestimated the damage he was able to do with two swords over a long range, or there was another reason for it. Witchers were not readily welcomed in these lands, to be sure. Geralt knew that the local people thought of his kind as little more than beasts, sexually insatiable and constantly looking for another body to add to their tally. Perhaps he was allowed to remain armed here so that he presented as more of a threat. Though, Geralt thought confusedly, he wasn’t sure how this would help the king’s cause. He needed Geralt, not the other way around. It would be an idiotic move on his part to present the witcher as something tainted or undesirable. And Geralt, or so he thought, had very little mind for politics. He had neither the time nor the energy to expend on such frivolities. Surely, Ingolfur had an advisor who would have alerted him to this already?

A sudden echo made him nearly start, before he remembered himself and clenched the hand that was itching to reach for his sword. He turned towards the sound, and was unimpressed to find a single man in splendid robes appraising him from the shadows.

“The great Geralt of Rivia,” the man mocked, stepping out, slumped over in a manner that Geralt only observed in men who greatly overestimated their own strength, “I must admit, I’m rather disappointed. I thought the famed Butcher of Blaviken would be a bit…well, more.”

Resisting the urge to state that the feeling was entirely mutual, the witcher crossed his arms across his chest, missing the tight pull of his armour. He raised an eyebrow, settled his weight into his heels. There was no threat to be had from this man, alone. And there were no other noises in the room, not the intake of breath nor the sharp tension of bowstrings drawn taut. They were well and truly alone. It was an unwise and curious mistake for the king to have made.

“Your majesty, I presume?” Geralt tried and failed to keep the mocking drawl from his tone. Ingolfur’s pale brows drew together into a scowl. He already had a rather ratlike face, and the petulant expression did little to accent what little attractiveness was there. A weak jawline, slender arms, hair as pale as newly threshed wheat. Watery eyes that looked like they were constantly on the verge of welling over with tears. The witcher briefly allowed himself to wonder how Kristjan had fallen foul of such a man.

“You presume correctly,” Ingolfur drew himself up to his rather unimpressive height, voice raspy but not deep or intimidating, “Though you would do well to keep that insolent tone from your voice should you wish to retain the use of it.”

Once again, the witcher narrowly escaped the vagaries of his own tongue, mostly by remembering that Vesemir had said it was his most dangerous downfall. He shifted from one foot to the other, inclined his head, not trusting himself to speak. Ingolfur stepped forwards in what he must have thought was a menacing way. His too-long robes scraped along the floor, and his pale brows quivered.

“I assume my vassal already alerted you as to why I require your services? I would rather not sully my tongue by discussing such shameful things openly.”

Geralt’s mind ventured back to the burned and tortured bodies outside the gates, twisted fantastically like supplicants at the entrance to some foul hell. He continued to hold his tongue, feeling very relieved that he had mastered the ability to school his face into an expressionless mask, when the need came.

“Your vassal?”

“You will refer to me as _your Grace_. And yes, the red-headed imp. Rather an unfortunate acquisition of mine, but he has his uses.”

“Indeed, _your Grace_.” Geralt very much wished to disguise his face as the words passed across his lips. He was sneering, he could tell. Dandelion had once told him he had a very distinctive, derisive sneer, and he had the sense that Ingolfur would not take kindly to it.

It seemed, though, that the king had momentarily decided to ignore the witcher’s insolence. He gave a wicked little smile and took another step forward. Geralt, against his better judgement, fought the urge to step back. An unsettled feeling sat heavily upon the air.

“Very well. Have you any questions? If not, you may begin the hunt immediately.”

“Unless I’m mistaken,” the witcher tried to choose his words carefully, speaking slowly as a result, “I’ve not agreed to take on any contract you’ve set forwards. And, as things stand, I would prefer not to. Perhaps another witcher will be more…amenable to your offer.”

The sneer had not disappeared. Geralt caught the inside of his lip between his canines, hoping it wouldn’t show. The wicked smile on Ingolfur’s face just deepened, carving ugly lines into his pale cheeks. In the gloomy light of the room, Geralt could just make out faint pockmarking on his skin, denoting some disfiguring childhood illness. Not a man born into great wealth, then.

“You seem to think, witcher, that I’ve offered you a choice. That couldn’t be further from the truth. I need this creature gone. And you will be the one who finishes the deed at which so many others have failed.”

Geralt released his lips, then, allowing them to curl upwards into a sort of snarl. He knew he looked truly hideous like this; an encounter with a doppler many years ago had proven that to him. However, it was useful when it came to frightening the nobility, most of whom had never fought another man in true combat. _I’ll see how long before he runs_ , Geralt thought to himself, amused, _see how much he really wants the white wolf when his teeth are barred._

“You seem to think, your grace,” he drawled, grinning wickedly, “That I have offered you a choice. And I must warn you that attempting to coerce a witcher is a dangerous game. One that won’t end well for you. So, I would advise you abandon this little plot before you find yourself in over your head…or without one at all.”

Perhaps he had gone a bit too far with the theatrics. Spending too much time with poets and artists of late, he thought. But based on the enraged look on Ingolfur’s face, they had done what the witcher intended. Flustered and unarmed, the man would be easy to subdue for long enough that Geralt could exit without having to fight his way out. Truly, it was the man’s own fault for allowing this meeting to take place with no guards present. An egotistical mistake he would not be likely to repeat.

However, as the witcher’s grip closed about the leather-wrapped hilt of his steel sword, something in the air shifted. Ingolfur made a small movement with his fingers, a sort of wrapping motion that made an eerie parallel with Geralt’s own grip on his weapon. They both stopped moving, caught one another’s eye, and for a moment there was a suffocating stillness. Then, the king spoke, a regal tone issuing forth from his throat, powerful and deep and nothing like the snivelling coward of a man that Geralt had appraised upon his entry into the chamber.

“Did your friend not warn you not to underestimate me, witcher? Ah, but it matters little now. You have, and you will find that I am not a man easily subjected to your brutish and forceful whims. Bring her!”

With the last sentence, the king turned, and there was an echoing clang and a grating rasp that resounded through the room. Geralt resisted the urge to turn his head and wince, sensitive hearing overcome with the sharp sound. However, as he watched the floor split apart, two panels of stone sliding down and underneath the rest, he felt as though he could not turn away. For the king had known that his sensitive hearing would pick up on any guards prowling the corridors and balconies of the hall. He had known, and hidden them below a buffering layer of rock in the floor instead. The witcher cursed his own stupidity. It was rare that he truly underestimated an opponent. But Ingolfur grew crueller the more Geralt learned about him, and the witcher was not much inclined to stay in this room to discover much more.

However, it was at that moment that two guards appeared, climbing the stone stairs from the torch-lit abyss below. Between them, they held a girl. They had her in irons, restrained by her elbows, and her bare feet dragged against the floor. Her whole body was dirty and shivering, hair hanging in lank and sweaty locks about her face. She did not look up, but Geralt could not tell if she was trembling from cold or fear. Her dress was ripped, but it had once been fine, and the witcher felt a small spark of anger in his chest. This was the princess, Ingolfur’s daughter. In such a shithole, her finery could denote her as no one else, ruined though it was.

“Is this how you treat your heir?” Geralt mocked, though his mind was racing for a way out of this pox-ridden mess, “Bind her and beat her and hope that she will legitimize your rule? Not the first king I’ve seen to adopt such a strategy. None of the other ones lived very long, I’m afraid to say.”

Ingolfur let out a hollow laugh and gripped his daughter’s small chin cruelly between his fingers. Her face was pretty, though it was dirty and smeared with tears. She still refused to look up, breaths hitching in her chest as though she was trying not to cry. The witcher was impressed by her resolve, though he could not be sure whether it came from bravery or sheer terror. He released his grip on the hilt of his sword, stepping slowly back, leather gloves creaking as he unwound his hand.

“Lady Asdis,” the king chuckled, “Are you displeased with your arrangement? Are you cold? Perhaps we should warm you.”

Asdis’ eyes flickered upwards, and the witcher caught her gaze. It was sorrowful, broken, as though she had given up any hope.

“I am not cold, father.” Her words were wooden, as though she had repeated them a thousand times to keep emotion from clouding her words. Her eyes never moved from Geralt’s, even when Ingolfur backhanded her, and a bit of bloody spittle trickled down her lips.

“You see, Sir Witcher, she is perfectly content! I am simply concerned with her future. Without a man to sire her heirs, I’m afraid my daughter is…useless to me. No better than a piece of meat, and certainly not one that I intend to keep feeding on limited resources. That bitch who sits on the Cintran throne has cut off our trade, refuses to reinstate it until I can legitimize my rule. An extra mouth to feed…well, it’s simply bad business.

“That’s where you come in, Rivian. Without your services to rid her land of its infestation, I’m afraid Lady Asdis is of no further use to me. So, if you do not wish to be held responsible for her death, I would suggest you begin making preparations to travel. News travels fast of a witcher who causes the death of a beautiful young princess in her prime.”

“I bear no responsibility for a crime I do not commit,” Geralt snarled, “Your choice to murder your own daughter is yours and yours alone. I will not bear the guilt for you. And I am sure that the news of the king who murders his own child for sport will travel far faster than that of a witcher that was framed for murder.”

“I see the indecision in your eyes. Look, your hand twitches, unsure if it should grip the sword or bow down in submission. A beast, that is all you are. And I and I alone control what the women of this kingdom prattle over, what stories the men exchange over a pint at the tavern. Refuse me, Rivian, and I will torture you until you kill her yourself. Fail me, and you will meet the same fate. When you’re done murdering her, I’ll turn you out into the cold, unable to take a contract within a thousand miles of this keep. That is the life you would choose should you decide to deny me.”

Subconsciously, the witcher stopped clenching his fist. It was far more a reaction to how quickly he wanted to gut this man and use his entrails as bruxa bait than any sort of inner turmoil, but far be it from him to clarify. Besides, the damned bastard had thought this out far better than Geralt had anticipated. To try to leave now would be to doom not only himself, but also his fellow witchers, to a hungry and cold fall when the villagers of the neighbouring environs became too afraid to offer them work. And while Geralt was more than willing to bear the brunt of these consequences alone, that was not something he could subject his brothers to. He was also not in the habit of killing defenseless humans, coerced or otherwise. There were enough terrified young women in his mind to haunt his nightmares for several lifetimes, he thought with a wry grimace.

“I’m not going to waste my energy fighting you,” he said with a rather wolfish smile, “I have no doubt that there are more than a handful of men roaming this continent right now who would like your head to come detached from your shoulders. Far be it from me to deny them.”

The witcher reached up and unsheathed his sword, setting it on the floor gently. He would have dropped it for the effect, but the thought of endangering such a fine weapon merely to make a statement made his guts churn. Ingolfur gave him an imperious smile, and gestured for the guards to release Asdis, who slumped forward onto her elbows, forehead pressed into the cold stone.

“I knew you would see my side. It is said you’re a reasonable man, witcher, and not one overly fond of unnecessary bloodshed.”

“Seen enough of it to last me a lifetime. And there are men who walk this earth who have taken more than their fair share of bloodshed. I don’t feel the need to add my two cents in when others are doing such a…fine job.”

_A pox on you and your sneering,_ a voice that sounded rather like Dandelion’s echoed in Geralt’s head, _you’ll get yourself killed, and there’s no coming back from that._

Ingolfur, though, seemed to take the mockery as a compliment. He chuckled dryly, robes sweeping on the cold floor as he made his way to stand eye-to-eye with the witcher. His cold expression was predatory and ruthless, and Geralt felt distinctly as though the other man was staring right through him. It was unsettling, and he shifted from one foot to the other in an attempt to draw Ingolfur’s gaze without letting on that he was bothered. It wouldn’t do to let the king see how much he had rattled the witcher.

“Well,” Ingolfur clapped his hands together gleefully, making Geralt start a bit and Asdis wince, smacking her dirty forehead into the cobbles in her surprise, “I suppose we should get to work. Or rather, you should, Rivian. This beast is a truly vicious thing, and the sooner it’s gone, the sooner you can be free of this place. I can tell you find me and my kingdom distasteful. Though I can’t imagine why.

“You have three days. Fail to return to my keep after this time, and I will assume you dead and kill Asdis all the same, for there will be no one else who can rid us of the beast before she must be given away to a husband.”

Resisting the urge to posit that the rotting corpses and unnecessary cruelty might have something to do with it, the Rivian bent over and picked up his sword. Best to bite his tongue now, he thought, and run this bastard through at a more opportune moment. From experience, he had learned that such moments always presented themselves if he waited. And witchers were nothing if not patient. The hunters who stalked the shadows, biding their time until the most appropriate moment to strike arose. At least, that was what the witcher told himself to quiet his sword hand, itching to gut Ingolfur and be rid of this place and all its uncomfortable, irritating trappings.

“Hmm. Any information you can provide me with is helpful. The states of the bodies when they were returned to you, any sightings of the creature. The more I know, the sooner we can put an end to this.”

“Really, witcher,” Ingolfur chuckled, “You think I had the bodies recovered? That I would risk sending more men into that fetid marshland simply to bring the sons of a few peasants home? No, I hired you for this task. You’ll not have me risking my valuable time and resources to do the one thing that you were created for.”

“So I’m on my own?” Geralt kept his tone neutral, though he felt furious and hot and about ready to fling down his sword and stalk out of this keep, consequences be damned. It was what Dandelion would have called being “hot and bothered”, though the witcher had been unsure of the underlying metaphors when the poet used that phrase. It certainly applied to him now, though. Assuming the sexual innuendo was null and void.

“This is your profession, is it not? Go, and remember the consequences should you fail.”

Feeling relieved that his mutations did not allowed his face to redden, whether from embarrassment or anger, the witcher turned to go. He tucked the sword back into its sheath at his back, and stalked from the room on silent feet, though his boots left damp marks on the floor behind him.

* * *

_This truly is a miserable place,_ the witcher thought as he adjusted Roach’s girth in the courtyard of the castle. The drizzle of rain from earlier had grown into a steady sheet, and he felt he had underprepared in the name of looking decent. In retrospect, he should have abandoned such notions. No one hired a witcher because of the way he looked.

“Geralt! I judge from your sour expression that your meeting went well?”

The witcher leaned his soaked gloves against his mount’s side and took a preparatory breath before turning to face Kristjan. The man’s eyebrows were drawn together against the sheet of rain, and his breath formed a little cloud before him, dispersing into the humid, chilly air. Geralt frowned.

“I took his contract.” It was unnecessary to share the details of how exactly his acceptance had come about. Not that he cared about being mocked by a mercenary who was indebted to half the Continent.

“I never doubted you would. I did warn you, Geralt, he’s a persuasive bastard. Uncanny sense of how to bend someone to his will. It’s fucking disturbing.”

The witcher was inclined to agree, but was not in the mood for philosophizing even as his fingers began to freeze about his mare’s girth. He grunted in assent and went back to work, wondering why the mercenary had sought him out at all. The man would have to be an idiot to think to offer him any help, when so many had already died.

“I can offer you an escort as far as the marshland,” Kristjan continued on, as though he had read Geralt’s thoughts, “From there, you’re on your own. Not even my debt to Ingolfur could make me set foot inside those pox-ridden swamps.”

“A true vote of confidence.”

Kristjan chuckled and slapped Geralt on the back quite hard, making the witcher’s cold shoulder sting with impact. He said nothing.

“You do have a sense of humour buried somewhere within that brooding mind. Though every time I see you it seems to surface less and less.”

“A hazard of the job. And of keeping one’s dignity intact.” Geralt let out a little huff of air and watched as his breath froze about him before it was dispersed by the rain. The mercenary gave a little chuckle and sauntered off, returning a moment later with the same high-strung stallion he had been riding earlier. The witcher appraised the horse again, and determined that it did look like it had been ridden straight from hell. It snorted and pawed the ground, nipping at a stray dog that ventured too close in search of shelter from the downpour.

“If you’ve prepared, I would rather be off. I’ve no desire to stay in this place any longer than I must.”

“That makes two of us, witcher.”

Geralt wrapped a heavy wool cloak over his now completely drenched leather coat, which was clinging most uncomfortable to his skin. It was sure to spell ruin for the expensive garment, and the witcher felt a mild shock of irritation when he considered having to make a stop in Oxenfurt or Cintra to replace it. But the cloak was warm, and allowed him to put a hood over his distinctive eyes and hair, both of which were dripping with rain. He swung up into the saddle, and without waiting for Kristjan to mount up, rode through the partially open gate and waited on the drawbridge.

“Come,” he said when the mercenary had joined him, “This place reeks of death.”

With a disgusted expression that denoted his agreement, the red-haired man, free of any cloak or jacket, spurred his stallion forwards. With a wicked toss of its head, the horse surged down the road, between the burnt-up, rotting corpses, spraying water and mud onto their pitiful remains. The witcher followed along behind, keeping his mount to a canter out of respect for the dead. He had seen his fair share of butchered bodies, but these ones were particularly unsettling. As they took the crossroads towards the marshland, Geralt observed the corpse of a small child, bloated and blue, one hand tied to the way marker and pointing towards Ingolfur’s castle, a grizzly compass pointing to the man who had killed him. Feeling watched, the witcher spurred his mare to catch Kristjan’s horse, eager to leave this miserable place far behind him, for the time being.

* * *

“This is where our paths part, I’m afraid,” Kristjan drew in the reins of his horse at the edge of a dark, imposing land made even more so by the darkness of the pre-nighttime glow, “The beast is said to roam all corners of the marsh, so if you wander here for long enough you should have no trouble finding it. Though, following the trail of bodies and blood won’t lead you astray either.”

The witcher wrinkled his nose distastefully, and his horse snorted and tossed her head. Neither of them were keen on entering the stinking waters, and the red-haired mercenary offered both a sympathetic grimace.

“My best wishes go with both of you. I’ve no idea what Ingolfur threatened you with, but in order to coerce a witcher into doing his bidding, it must have been no trifle. I hope you kill the beast, if for no other reason than to free his poor daughter from his side.”

In his personal experience, Geralt found that men like Ingolfur never truly let go of those they had their talons firmly embedded in, but he saw no reason to argue the semantics of it with Kristjan. He tipped his head, threw back his hood to give the mercenary a proper send-off,

raising a gloved hand as well. The man gave a jaunty chuckled and tossed his brilliant curls, kicking his stallion into a theatrical rear. The witcher resisted the urge to roll his eyes, curling his lips in a small, wolfish smile instead.

“I don’t know why I’m worried for you, Geralt. Of all the mad bastards Ingolfur could have chosen to hunt his thrice-damned beast, you’re by far the luckiest and the most skilled. I’ve no doubt I’ll see you or hear of your triumph upon my return.”

“With any luck. Though mine will give out, eventually.”

“You say that every time I see you,” Kristjan chuckled, “And yet here I am, sending you off on another venture. I’ll see you in a few days’ time, Geralt. And if anything should go sour, I’ll be sure to take this route back. You need only wait for me here if you need a hand.”

Nodding his gratitude, the witcher watched as the mercenary spurred his mount onwards, thundering along the road as though the very devil were nipping at his heels. It seemed he was just as eager to be rid of this place as Geralt was. He wrinkled his nose, though it did nothing to protect him from the foul nature of the bog’s air, and dismounted.

“No point in taking you in there, Roach,” he said softly, now that there was no one within earshot to mock him for carrying on a one-sided conversation with his horse, “Mud would only slow you down.”

She whinnied and bumped his shoulder softly, and he grunted.

“I’ll be back. Probably just a ghoul or a pack of scurvers.”

Gathering an appropriately small number of rations from her saddlebags, Geralt outfitted himself with his armour and swords, as well as some potions and food. He buckled a dagger to the inside of his arm; easily accessible should he be caught unawares, and made certain he had doses of Swallow and Cat for when the night grew dark, and he was accosted by whatever foul creatures inhabited this corner of the earth.

The marshy land sucked his boots right down into the muck from the very first step he took. They had been fine boots as well, made from calfskin and treated to make them more waterproof than his previous pair. Letting out a small, irritated huff, Geralt ventured on, feeling the muscles in his legs burn as he unstuck his feet from the ground, trying to find footing on stones and logs wherever he could. The whole place reeked of decay, so much so that the witcher was unsure if he would be able to parse the scent of decomposing bodies from that of plants, animal matter, and the various noxious gases that were issuing forth from the earth. Even the trees were skeletal, grasping and clawing at the air like the hands of the damned, not a leaf or living branch in sight. The place was unsettling, and Geralt wondered if the soldiers had made it this far at all, or simply defected and run at the first sight of such a horrific place to die. Certainly, had he been given a choice, this was not the place that the witcher would choose to have his remains lie for all eternity. He did not fault any men who couldn’t bear the thought of becoming one with the fetid waters of this swamp. That was not cowardice, but simple common sense.

Such thoughts were the Rivian’s only entertainment for several hours, during which he managed to cover a disappointingly small amount of ground. As the sun began to crest the horizon, filtering weakly through the damp mist that seemed to constantly permeate all marshlands, Geralt estimated he had travelled less than five miles. Though every tree, stone and fetid pool looked the same, and he had little to mark his progress by other than the position of the weak light above him and a vague estimate of how long he had been slogging through the mud.

His eyes began to take on a new light then, moving with more suspicion and caution. To have travelled, unimpeded, through monster-infested territory for a whole night was reason enough for alarm. He stopped frequently, bending over at the slightest sign of tracks or drag marks in the soggy ground. Something was afoot here; he was sure of it. It was as though the whole land was holding its breath, waiting for something.

_No point in continuing to waste my energy,_ he thought ruefully to himself after another uneventful, exhausting hour, _whatever’s living here, it will be able to find me easier than I can find it._

So, he sat down and waited. Having located a relatively intact log from a newly felled tree, the witcher knelt atop it, hooking the sodden toes of his boots about a stray branch to keep his balance. He lay his broad silver sword across his knees, where it glinted dully in the fog, and applied some oil to the blade. Then, with one hand on the hilt and the other resting delicately midway down the blade, long fingers wrapped about it, the witcher closed his eyes and seemed to drift for a time. Neither was he fully present in the marsh, nor was he completely vulnerable. To a passerby, he would have been nigh on invisible, blending with the darkness of his surroundings. And yet, he drew breath, slowly, and his pulse marched evenly through his veins. He knew it was more than enough to draw out whatever evils were lurking beyond his sight.

It took longer than he had expected. Though, lost in meditation and drifting between his own mind and the physical realm, Geralt often found he lost track of time. However, when he roused, it was still light out, and there was a cracking, creaking noise in the distance. He noted, with some consternation, that he felt very tired. Nigh on exhausted, in fact, as though he had gone several days travelling with no sleep. Such was not normally the case when he came to after a long period of meditation, and he filed it away curiously for a time when there was not some unknown assailant stalking the edges of his senses.

Slowly, he uncurled his fingers, which were stiff about the blade, and clenched them a few times to restore warmth and blood flow. Whatever was coming, it would not wait for his veins to be pumping with adrenaline and red blood before it attacked.

The air crackled again, and there was a hiss. A bird flew by overhead, a lone raven, cackling out a warning. It dove low, nearly colliding with the witcher before it abandoned its dangerous course at the last second and swooped skyward, above the fog. Wincing, the Rivian scrubbed at his face, surprised to find a days’ worth of stubble scratching at his hand through his glove. Surely, he could not have meditated that long.

Any further thoughts of this vein were quickly abandoned, though, as the cracking grew louder, more rhythmic. It was like a pulse, senseless, regular, never-fluctuating. The sound of breaking bark and splashing water filled the air. A groaning noise was present as well, like the slow movement of a tree as it finally gave up its grounding roots in the earth and began its slow decent back to the ground. Dandelion had once asked Geralt if a tree fell and no one was there to listen, whether it made any noise at all. Now, in this moment, the witcher had no doubt that it did, and that it was absolutely ear-shattering, even louder than if someone had been there to witness its final fall.

This was no tree, though. No rotten bark, collapsing inwards on itself as it took one final, suicidal plunge towards the soil that had nurtured it and would now be providing its grave. This was a living thing, ancient and crackling with chaos so bright that Geralt could feel the hairs on his arms raising. Slowly, carefully, he hefted his sword. He knew what this beast was, and he had no inclination to face it.

A few more crows flew by, diving and pecking at the Rivian’s face. He paid them no mind, though one scored a shallow cut across his cheek. If anything, the smell of his own blood enraged him. He wanted to be rid of this foul place and its foul creatures, of the dead-handed trees and the fetid bog air. Hefting his sword, he moved forwards, even as a sudden wind caught his bone-white hair and plastered it to his scalp, twisting and turning the ends like an old woman spinning at her wheel.

“I’ve not got all night to wait,” the witcher snarled, tired, the wind stealing the very breath from his lungs, “Show yourself.”

The creaking increased. There was a roar, though it did not sound like it issued forth from a throat, but rather as though it had been blown through a hollow bone horn. It was ear-splitting, and there were bits of debris and large sticks flying past the witcher in the stiff gale now. He paid them no mind, advancing ever onwards. Just beyond the tree, he could see the beast that would buy him freedom from his obligations to a king and his lonely daughter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt tracks the beast in the marsh. Time begins to run out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! It's me again, with the second instalment of this absolute labour of love! I spent a ton of time re-reading Geralt and Yen's interactions in the books to try to make this as accurate a representation as possible, so I hope it lives up to that. I find their relationship dynamic extremely complicated and unpredictable, so I struggled a lot with trying to define all that complication here (hence the day late update...). Hope you guys enjoy!
> 
> (As an aside -- being ambushed by insects is totally something that I think would happen to book Geralt and his terrible luck. Writing it made me laugh).

The slumped figure was almost camouflaged in amongst the deadened, wizened trees of the marsh, no more than another lump of rock or decaying matter amidst many. A sword lay nearby, and the trees and moss about it were scorched and blackened, as though someone had taken a flaming torch to the immediate land. When it shifted, several fish and water boatmen, the only organisms brave enough to endure such harsh conditions, scattered, leaving V-shaped trails in the water behind them.

The witcher winced, straightened up. He put a hand to the side of his head, which was oozing blood lazily down into the water that was pooling beneath his weight.

_Damn,_ he thought hazily, trying to gather thoughts that had scattered like deer before a wildcat, _What’s happened to me? It feels as though days have passed since I was last awake, but my blood is still fresh, and my head aches horribly._

He reached up, touched at the stick blood on his temple. It was a miracle that he had not been killed; the beast had been no simple ghoul or wight, and he had found himself vastly underprepared. Much like how he had found himself in his meeting with Ingolfur, Geralt had completely underestimated his opponent; he was beginning to grow frustrated with his own slip-ups. He had found himself facing a truly ancient leshen with little more than a necrophage oil-coated blade and a surprised burst of Igni that he had let burst forth from his fingers the moment he had seen the creature lurching towards him on tree-trunk legs. The battle had been brief but intense; Geralt considered himself lucky that there were no wolves or wild creatures in this marshland that the leshen could call on to attack him. A few crows and raven had been quickly dispatched, their plumage now littering the scorched ground. And then the witcher had faced the leshen head on, done his best to burn the creature out of existence, but it was massive and strong and able to make use of more than a small amount of chaos. Geralt had done little more than wound the creature before it had struck him down with a great blow across the temple. He had tried to gather up his sword, pull himself back onto his feet, but the treacherous mud had sunk beneath his feet and sucked him down into the earth; in his weakened condition he had been unable to extract himself before the darkness of unconsciousness had overtaken him. His final conscious memories were of preparing himself to meet his end. Leshen did not leave their victims alive. 

And yet, he found himself able to move, able to peel himself out of the much and sit back on his heels. Granted, he felt a bit dizzy and out of sorts, and the long time spent lying in the fetid water left him shivering and smelling like a sewer. But to go from likely death to being barely even wounded was a surprising change of tact. The witcher couldn’t help but wonder why he had been left alive.

_Perhaps I’ve wounded it,_ he thought optimistically, _and it’s gone off somewhere to recover its strength._

A moment later, the witcher shook his head with a small snort. If only Dandelion could see him now, using the word _optimistic_ to describe himself. Perhaps he had hit his head harder than he had imagined. The poet was constantly bemoaning that his companion’s lot in life had caused him to become “old and cantankerous” before his time. And yet, Geralt rather wished Dandelion were here now. The whole ordeal, at least to his untrained mind, had the makings of a superb ballad. And the poet was remarkably good at lifting Geralt’s spirits after a hunt gone sour. He felt frustrated for having allowed the leshen to get away, irritated with himself for having been so careless and underprepared. And now, stuck in the middle of a swamp with nothing but fields for miles around and a time limit urging him onwards, he had no time to prepare the potions and oils that might have actually aided him in his fight. He sighed, placed his head in his palm. There was a headache coiling behind his temples, and nothing to do but keep forging onwards until the beast had been slain, lest he fail to return within the time given to him and cause the murder of the princess.

The leshen had left tracks; huge drag marks that rent apart the mud and made it easier for Geralt to walk. He drew his cloak around himself and marched on, sword in hand, unwilling to be caught unaware by the beast for a second time.

The stars were hanging high in the sky when Geralt began following the tracks, and as he continued on, they slowly bled into the pinkish hues of dawn. Everything was muffled in this forsaken place, the beauty of the sunrise paled by the clumps of misty fog that obscured everything not within a fifty-foot radius. The witcher wondered when the last time had been that he had slept. A fitful rest on Roach’s back while riding through the night to meet Kristjan on the coast, perhaps two days ago. Time had lost all meaning in this place; he truly had no idea how long he had remained unconscious for, and that thought alone was enough to set his teeth on edge.

_If I make it out of this damnable place alive, and once I’ve washed the stink from my skin, I’ll kill that bastard myself._

He shook out his leather coat and cloak, wrinkling his nose at the odour they produced. He would have to try to barter for extra pay as well, to purchase new ones. Such garments did not come inexpensively, and having just purchased a new coat, Geralt felt supremely frustrated at how little time it had served him for. Perhaps Kristjan new of an exceptional leather-cleaner in these parts, someone who could wash the foul stench away and cut new stitches where they impeded Geralt’s range of motion in his arms. It was impossible to find a properly cut coat these days without travelling to a proper tailor in Oxenfurt. When this was all done, perhaps he would pay Dandelion a visit and replace his gear at the same time.

_My thoughts are wandering worse than leaves in the wind,_ Geralt rubbed at his temple, feeling the blood that was still slick there, _perhaps a visit to Shani would be appropriate, if I’m to turn to Oxenfurt. She’ll skin me alive for allowing myself to get in such a state._

However, the thought of a remedy for his headache was a bolstering one, and Geralt continued on with a new spring in his step. It was easier to travel now; as he approached the centre of the bog the mud gave way to logs and slightly more packed earth. There were even some living trees here, and green moss hanging from stones and the great pines above him.

The insects, however, were abominable. The witcher generally considered himself to be fairly impervious to insects; it took a fair number of bites before he was bothered, and his self-control was such that he rarely scratched at them or made them worse. But the incessant buzzing was enough to drive him to distraction, exhausted as he already was, and his hands, neck and face were soon so covered by insects and reddened bites that his skin took on the appearance of having recently experienced a bad sunburn. Every inch of his exposed skin was swollen, red, and itching abominably, and he soon found that soaking his hands in the pools of water he came across only made the itching worse. Suddenly, Geralt found himself feeling far more sympathetic towards the way that Dandelion and Ciri complained of the insects while he was travelling with them. He felt as though he was burning alive, too distracted by his increasing headache and the itching of his body to keep fully alert to danger anymore.

So the day continued, with Geralt keeping his boots in line with the great tracts of land swept aside by the leshen. The branches it had broken swung eerily above in the dead air, and the witcher wondered if it was simply the beating of the insects’ wings creating enough of a draft to make them move. They creaked as well, echoing through the stifling silence of the misty air. Several times, the witcher found himself stumbling over his own feet, cursing himself for his own clumsiness even as he continued onwards. He knew very well the effects of having gone several days without sleep: the clumsiness, the loss of time. It was folly to continue on in such a condition, and in any other scenario the witcher would have left this damned place and taken time to rest. But with the time constraint still breathing like some great beast down the back of his neck, Geralt knew he couldn’t afford to wait.

The sun had reached its zenith and descended into West again when Geralt finally looked up from his own muddy boots. He had been lost in thought for hours, flitting between wondering how Ciri was getting on, to thinking of Yen and her transfixing eyes, to wishing that Dandelion would buy him an ale in Oxenfurt, even if it meant listening to the poet chatter about music until the early hours. If only he could go back to Dandelion’s luxurious apartment with its four-poster bed and soft silk sheets. He always enjoyed visiting his friend in Oxenfurt; often Dandelion got him permission to attend lectures and make use of the library, which Geralt enjoyed immensely. In another life, and if it hadn’t been full of such peacocking, he might have enjoyed being an academic.

Now, though, there was no denying that he was nowhere near Oxenfurt, and that he might never be again. He had lost time throughout the day, jolting back to himself to find he must have fallen asleep while still walking. It was ridiculous to continue on, and now that night was falling, every inch of Geralt’s body was urging him to take rest before he encountered the leshen in his current predicament.

He seated himself with a thump on a musty-smelling log. The air was heavy with mist, and the insects were still swarming ferociously. The witcher wondered if there was any skin on him left for them to bite. He swatted at a few idly, but found himself leaning back against a tree, tucking his hands into his armpits to decrease the amount of skin he had exposed. He was burning all over, feverish almost.

There was to be no rest for him, though. He brushed his hair subconsciously behind his ears, crossed and uncrossed his ankles. But his heart was pounding viciously within him, a most unpleasant sensation.

_Ciri will never forgive me if I die out here without saying goodbye,_ he thought with a dry chuckle, _she’ll likely bring me back just to murder me herself. Yen as well. They’ll be the death of me._

For some reason, this struck the witcher as supremely funny. He leaned forwards and chuckled, placing his hands on his knees to avoid pitching face-first into the moss-covered rock he was resting his boots on.

_You’re losing your senses. Vesemir would tell you to get somewhere safe before you hurt yourself or someone else. But there’s no one in this gods-forsaken swamp anyways. I’ll be fine to rest here._

There was a cracking noise. The sound of bark and wood rending from itself. The witcher had once heard a similar sound during the midst of a thunderstorm, during which the tree he had been sheltering under had been split by lightening. The whole thing had carved neatly in half, the two parts falling to the side in a sea of smoke and blackened wood. But there was no thunderstorm tonight. And Geralt was well-versed enough in his trade to know exactly what might be tearing itself from the bark of a tree. He had, inadvertently, entered the leshen’s lair.

_A pox on it. I’ve gone and ended up exactly where I wanted to be, in a condition where I’ll be able to do absolutely nothing except get myself killed. Damn._

The witcher pushed himself wearily to his feet. The insects were forming a cloud about him now, and he realized it had probably been the leshen all along, controlling what beasts it had at its disposal to make Geralt leave. Or at least make him take leave of his senses. He felt he nearly had, and he was still tasked with killing the damned thing.

_Well. I suppose I might as well get it over with._

He stepped forwards and hefted his sword, trying to ignore the tired shake that seemed to have suddenly begun affecting his sword arm. The leshen was in front of him now, though the witcher was unable to make out more than a silhouette. Great antlers, set against the misty moonlight, clawed hands that clicked and twitched as though they had taken on a life of their own. A deer’s skull, missing several teeth, upon which sat a wreath of ivy and moss, nestled between the antlers. The teeth clacked together several times, as though the creature was amused. It reached out with a strange, wooden finger, and touched Geralt. As soon as it made contact, it threw its head back and let out an aching, shivering, grating scream. It sounded like the shifting of ice on a glacier, the rending apart of ancient oaks, the passing by of two boulders. Almost as though the whole world, all of nature’s uncontrolled chaos, had come together underneath the hazy sky to give presence to this beast’s fury, to allow it to defend its home. For a moment, the witcher felt sympathy for it. After all, what was a leshen but a guardian of the forest, of its home and those that lived in it? Had he not had such a heavy price hanging over his head, Geralt would have turned and let it live. In fact, he never would have come here in the first place. This beast would never have harmed anyone had it not been threatened and harmed first.

As it was, though, the witcher had little choice. He formed a weak Igni in his left palm, to test his strength. A small flame formed there, but it was no larger than that made by a match. He shook it out, frustrated. There was always another way. He hoped he could think of it before the leshen ripped his limbs from his body.

Spiraling his sword in an experimental and rather tired looking moulinet, Geralt stepped forwards with a bracing breath. He had no more potions, no more oils, and little strength left to form signs. He would have to take the beast down in a more traditional way.

It reached out as soon as he was within its grasp, creaking limbs and whooshing air the only warning it gave. The witcher barely had time to pirouette down to his knees, quickly gain his feet again, and take a wild slash at the leshen’s leg. His one advantage was that he was infinitely smaller and faster than this ancient creature, and he planned on drawing on this as much as he could. His silver cut deep, and the beast roared in pain, swiping at Geralt. He would have been unable to parry such a direct hit even if he had been at his full strength. As it was, the blow drove him back against a tree, where he found himself set upon by several screeching songbirds. Feeling guilty, he incinerated them with several small blasts of Igni, and turned his focus on the leshen again.

The beast had managed to conjure up some sort of shield out of the swamp water around it, and the witcher cursed. Fire, a leshen’s one weakness, would be no match for such an enchantment. Especially not his own weakened signs. He needed to find a way to get it to let its guard down, release the shield so he could kill it.

_Damn it all. I’ve no interest in letting this creature toss me about. I’ll never make it back to Ingolfur in time if it wounds me. But I’m running out of options to kill it at all, let alone bring proof of completion back to that bastard._

Hefting his sword yet again, Geralt stepped forwards, placing himself directly in front of the shield. He knew that as soon as he made contact, he would either be sucked into the swirling vortex of stinking water or thrown back against a tree, depending on the type of enchantment the leshen had used. It was more likely the latter, since leshen were not creatures of the conjunction and tended to rely on the natural forces around them instead of manufacturing traps that would never have occurred on their own. No doubt this beast was drawing on the seismic and gale forces around it to keep the enchantment in effect. He braced himself for a painful impact and stepped forward.

Immediately, there was a great rushing noise, and through the water, the witcher saw all the trees bend at once as though a great wind had overtaken them. With a violent swish, the shield congealed about him, and flung him backwards with an enormous amount of force. A sickening crack issued forth from Geralt’s shoulder as it made impact with a tree. The wind swirled and howled ever more, and the witcher didn’t have to employ many acting skills as he sank to the ground and allowed his eyes to flicker shut. Truly, it was a greater fight to keep himself awake and alert than it was to act as though the leshen had killed him. His shoulder throbbed abominably.

Presently, the howling wind stopped, and there was a splashing noise as the water shield fell and sank back into the earth. Geralt breathed very shallowly, slowly in and out through his nose, hoping that in doing so his heartbeat would be so faint that the leshen would not be able to detect that he was still alive. There was a creak, and he had to suppress a primal instinct to slice of the creature’s arm as it leaned over to inspect him, hooking a wooden nail underneath the straps of one of his pauldrons and rolling him onto his back. There was a deep, windy inhaling noise, another few creaks, and the stillness.

For a moment, the witcher barely dared to breathe. It was an idiotic ruse, one that never should have worked, and one that he never would have attempted had he not been verging on three days without sleep. He grit his teeth, lay still as death, and counted slowly backwards from a thousand. A panicky feeling rose in his chest when he found his shallow breaths weren’t bringing him enough air, but he suppressed it for the time being. In his experience, nearly anything was sustainable for a short period of time. And now, it was a matter of necessity.

When he reached the end of his counting, the witcher let himself twitch the tiniest amount, to see what would happen. Besides the swarming of insects and the hoot of an owl, the bog remained silent. Clenching his fist against what he now determined was a dislocated shoulder, he pulled himself first to his knees, and then to his feet. His sword was clenched tightly in his hand. And still, the bog remained still and silent. Geralt hardly dared to breathe, for fear he would alert the leshen to the fact that he was not dead. There was a squelching noise as he shifted his weight. A twig snapped, though he had not stepped on one. The witcher froze.

_Probably just a bird. I’m becoming too damned paranoid._

He shook his head to clear it a bit. It felt like a fog had descended over his vision, and he could barely hold his focus on what he needed to do. It was infuriating.

The witcher’s catlike pupils contracted, and the form of the leshen came into view. It had stilled, hunched over, its antlers and skull fitting eerily into the background of the forest. If he had not known better, Geralt would almost have been convinced that it was just another tree. He crept forwards, stopping briefly to adjust his headband with his one useful arm. His hair was falling over his face, into his eyes and mouth. He spat it out with an irritated huff and kept moving forwards. The leshen remained unmoving, as though it had simply fallen dormant. The witcher found himself so near to it that he could have reached out and run his hand along its rough, bark-like skin. He had no desire to do so, and instead fell back to his knees, closing his eyes and trying to gather what little strength remained in his exhausted limbs. He formed the Igni sign, though he didn’t actually allow the chaos to flow through until he was sure he could hold it for long enough to cause the leshen serious damage. When he was sure he had the strength, he poured all his energy into forcing the flames forwards.

There was a roaring, rushing sound. A slight creaking as the leshen stirred, its skull-head snapping upright in a birdlike motion. It screeched, a great, taloned hand reaching out towards the source of the rushing fire, but this only caused it to catch sooner. Wailing, the beast crashed backwards into a pine tree, flailing wildly and causing several trees around it to catch ablaze as well. There was a wicked crackling as the needles of the trees began to blaze.

The leshen seemed to regain control of itself, though it was still flaming from both its arm and torso, and the fire was spreading fast. It lunged forward, and Geralt met it, parrying and twisting his sword straight downward, throwing off the creature’s arm. Ducking underneath the flaming limb, he came to stand behind it, where he hacked off a significant portion of burnt wood from its leg. The leshen roared and flailed its flaming limbs, its empty eyes now lit up by flames. The ivy and moss crown was burning as well, releasing a sickly sort of smoke. The witcher waved his hand in front of his eyes to clear them, and slid between the leshen’s legs as the creature tried to knock him backwards again. It was slowing now, bits of smouldering bark falling and hissing on the moist ground. But Geralt was slowing as well, swaying on his feet, struggling to keep his focus. He wiped his gloved hand across his sweaty forehead.

_Damn it all. When did my sword become so heavy?_

The weapon was slipping from his grip, and he jogged his hand up on the hilt so he didn’t drop it.

The leshen was truly burning apart now. Shards of bark and wood rained down around Geralt like snow, catching and fizzling on the damp moss. Above him the tree which had been set ablaze were crackling.

_I need to end this before the whole forest comes down on top of me._

Rallying what little strength he felt he had left in his sword arm, Geralt hefted his sword. One of the leshen’s arms was completely useless, smouldering and dragging on the ground, and he used this to his advantage, running up it on numb legs until he was standing on the creature’s shoulder. For one dreadful moment, the creature’s head turned. Its empty eye sockets, illuminated by the orange flames, made a disturbing parallel of Geralt’s own eyes. It stared at him, and then tilted its head, as though in concession.

A pang of remorse shot through the witcher’s breast as he severed the leshen’s head from its shoulders, and watched it roll across the moss to come to rest in a pool of water. The flames on its crown slowly fizzled and went out, and its body collapsed beneath his aching feet.

* * *

“…Geralt. Geralt! A pox on it, witcher, open your eyes. The scent of this place alone will drive me to distraction if I stay much longer. There, that’s it, slowly now. Don’t overdo it before you’re ready. These are new shoes; I don’t want puke on them.”

The witcher cracked an eyelid. He felt sore all over, and rather disoriented. In fact, he didn’t even know where he was or what had happened. But the voice that was speaking to him was one that he would recognize anywhere.

“Yennefer.” His voice snapped and cracked like branches in a storm, and even the one word made his throat scratch horrifically. He winced and clamped his mouth shut, thinking better of speaking for the time being. No doubt Yen would be thrilled.

“Indeed. Here against my better judgement as well. The lodge will be most displeased to discover I’ve left my post in Temeria.”

The witcher blinked. Considering and discussing the infuriatingly vague politics of the lodge was rather beyond him at the moment. He tried to push himself upright, and poorly concealed a groan when he accidentally used his wounded arm in the effort. If Yennefer hadn’t caught him, he would have fallen back into the foul-smelling mud. The sorceress made a disgusted noise as her arms came in contact with his coat, most definitely beyond repair now, squelching and oozing all manners of foul substances.

“I won’t waste my breath asking how you managed to get yourself into this situation. You look too addled to remember or properly recount the story to me right now anyways. I’ll portal us both back to the home I’m keeping in Vizima, you can rest and recover your wits there.”

Geralt was suddenly struck with the notion that there was something very important that he was forgetting. A burning sensation in the back of his mind, like an itch that he couldn’t scratch, told him there was some reason he couldn’t go back to Vizima, not yet. But for the life of him, he couldn’t recall what that reason might be. His brain felt very addled; he was surprised it wasn’t leaking from his ears and nose. Once, during a brief and painful stint in the Korath Desert, Geralt had seen a man’s brain do exactly that. He had died soon after, the combination of heat and a bad blow upside the skull having, for all intents and purposes, boiled his brain within him. It was an unpleasant memory, and not one which Geralt had any desire to experience for himself.

_Ah, fuck. Yen. She’s talking to me._

Rallying what little attention span remained to him, Geralt looked up at Yennefer. He must have slumped back during his contemplation of the liquified brain, because she was now supporting his head against her elbow in the way a mother would hold a newborn babe. She looked thunderous, though. Geralt wondered if her children, had she been able to bear them, would have been treated to a similar expression on a regular basis. He laboured under no delusions that her contempt was reserved for him and him alone.

“Is something the matter, Geralt?”

The itch was still present, but with Yen’s piercing violet eyes staring him down, the witcher couldn’t find it within himself to remember what it was. He was disoriented and weakened, and very tired. He was fairly sure the chirping of birds and the gentle burbling of a stream that he was hearing weren’t really there. Some sort of strange euphoria had set in. Surely, if there was some important task he had needed to complete, he would have been able to do it before he had passed out in the first place.

Shaking his head and trying to ignore the bursts of colour that were now flashing behind Yen’s head, Geralt let his eyes slip shut. They were, however, jolted back open a moment later when he was jostled roughly by the sorceress.

“I can’t conjure a portal and carry you by myself. You need to walk, Geralt. Now.”

There was no magical compulsion in her words; Geralt’s medallion remained stagnant against his chest. And yet there may as well have been, because he forced himself to his feet despite the way the flashing before his eyes was becoming more vivid, and the way his vision and legs wavered the moment he was upright. Yen took some of his weight on her shoulder, steadying him while he found his feet, one hand outstretched and tendrils of chaos dancing between her fingers like tiny lightning bolts.

“Dammit, Yen…not a portal.” The witcher dimly recalled that she had stated her intentions to portal them out of this place, but his mind was only now catching up to the implications of that. He tried to look at her beseechingly, though he was fairly sure he was going a bit cross-eyed, based on how the mirages and true forms of shapes shifted in front of him.

“Unless you’ve a plan to walk out of here, perhaps it would be best to save your complaints for a time when I’ve not just saved you from a slow death being eaten by insects.”

There was no bite to Yennefer’s words, but Geralt wisely bit his tongue, knowing how tempestuous the sorceress could be.

_Damn if I don’t adore her all the more for it,_ he thought rather hazily as the brilliant yellow energy of a portal crackled to life before them, setting the small hairs on his arms tingling and dancing, _she’ll be the death of me before any beast is._

The sorceress kept Geralt supported on her shoulder as they walked together into the portal, and after a brief moment during which the witcher was given the distinct impression that all his internal organs had been transported to another sphere, he was spat out, gasping, on his knees on unforgivingly hard cobblestones. He leaned to the side and retched, too miserable and tired to care about who might see or the fact that Yen was averse to any and all bodily functions that weren’t directly related to her voracious and diverse sexual appetite.

Surprisingly, though, she stayed by his side and kept him from falling face-first into his own vomit. When he managed to compose himself and wipe a shaky hand across his mouth, she allowed him to stand on his own two feet, knowing that to help him now would be a blow to his already rather bruised pride.

“Alright?”

The witcher nodded, locking his knees to hide the shaking in his legs. He was irritated, though more with himself than with Yennefer and her cold, calculated mannerisms. It was always this way when they reunited after a long time apart, and they had not reunited this time under the best of circumstances.

_My own damn fault,_ Geralt thought regretfully, running a rather tremulous hand through his lank hair, _should never have taken Ingolfur up on his offer._

With that thought, suddenly memories of the whole situation returned to him with an unpleasant and sickening jolt. His knees melted beneath him, and he felt himself gripping at a conveniently placed brick wall for support. Yennefer was holding onto his other elbow.

“Dammit, Geralt, you look as though you’re about to topple over. What on earth’s the matter? Though I suppose it doesn’t matter, you still seem in no fit state to tell me what’s happened to you. Do try to support some of your own weight, my sleeves are dragging in the road.”

_Asdis. Three days. I need to get back to Ingolfur before he murders her, let him know I completed the contract. Dammit, Yen, let me go._

It wasn’t so much that Yennefer was restraining him as it was that the witcher simply couldn’t find his feet beneath him. He stumbled, and, cursing, the sorceress pulled him upright.

“Yen…I need to go back.”

“Nonsense. Geralt, are you aware of how ridiculous that sounds, as you’re stumbling about the streets of Vizima like a drunk? Whatever you need to do, I’m more than sure it can wait until you’re no longer burning alive with fever with a shoulder that’s hanging on purely by the ligaments.”

The witcher shuddered involuntarily. His fever had escaped his attention until now, but when he examined the exposed skin of his hands and neck, he found he couldn’t allow himself to be particularly surprised. His skin was swollen and reddened with insect bites, every inch of it itching and prickling now that his attention had been drawn to it. However, the urge to go back still itched more strongly than his physical wounds. He pulled himself away from Yennefer’s supporting arm, ending up with his back leaned against a wall, panting.

“Dammit, Yen, send me back. He’ll kill his daughter if I don’t meet him by sundown tonight.”

Yennefer’s eyes darkened at Geralt’s words, and his medallion quivered ever so slightly against the suddenly sensitive skin of his chest, in tandem with a sudden and very brief flash of light that crackled between the sorceress’s palms. She stalked towards him, slung his arm over her shoulder, no longer muttering and complaining about the fact that he was unable to take any of his weight. Ruefully, the witcher felt a brief flash of guilt at the way his coat was dripping fetid water all over the ground and Yen’s finery. Though he was sure she would be able to enchant the smell away as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

“You needn’t concern yourself about it,” she said darkly, almost more to herself than to Geralt, who felt the uncomfortable sensation of the sorceress’s smell and feel prodding about in the recesses of his mind, gathering information, “I will go myself and inform him of your _success_.”

The witcher was, for a moment, struck by a sudden urge to stop Yennefer. As much as he liked to ignore the part of him that was woefully honour-bound, he couldn’t let the sorceress simply swan off into such danger as the one that Ingolfur presented, no matter how terrifyingly capable she was of defending herself.

_Come now, Geralt,_ Dandelion’s voice mocked in his head yet again, _don’t ignore the fact that you care for her. That you love her company. That, perhaps, there’s a small part of you looking forwards to waking to her scent in the midst of your fever-induced delirium? Feeling her hand caress your forehead?_

The witcher shook his head a bit drunkenly, his feet stumbling along next to Yen’s hurried gait. He was losing coordination quickly, had no potions to brace himself with. Damned Dandelion and his idiotic invasions of Geralt’s consciousness. Those were not feelings that the witcher was willing or able to confront today. His thoughts and words felt curdled, like sour milk.

For a long time after that, Geralt felt paralyzed. His feet dragged underneath him, but didn’t feel like they were under his control. Ice coursed through his veins, sometimes superseded by a ghastly heat that made him feel as though his blood was boiling and his skin was about to scab over and rupture like a foul blister.

_This shirt is too tight, and damn, I can’t feel my feet. Yennefer’s probably furious._

The sorceress didn’t seem furious, though, which only caused the witcher more distress. He had never presented her with a wound that didn’t boil her blood and speed up her heart, making her chastise his carelessness for hours afterwards. Now, though, she was grimly silent, teeth gritted, hauling his uncoordinated body through the streets of Vizima. It appeared to be early evening, with people returning home from their places of work. Whispers caught in Geralt’s ears, echoed in his mind, but he found himself to be completely incapable of grasping onto what the words meant. Eventually, he settled on focusing on Yen’s steady heartbeat. It was humiliating to admit that it was one of the few things anchoring him to reality. His hands and neck itched and throbbed uncomfortably, and it was all he could do to not demand that Yen stop so he could shed every inch of clothing that he was wearing in an effort to cool himself down, and stop the pain of the insect bites.

There was a creaking sound, and then Geralt found himself being dumped rather unceremoniously on a soft bed. The springs of the mattress creaked under his weight.

_Expensive mattress, to have springs instead of straw. Trust Yen to find one in the middle of an economic crisis and a war._

He was grateful for the sorceress’s expensive preclusions now, though. Straw mattresses were itchy and prone to overheating, and the witcher couldn’t remember the last time he had been offered accommodation on such a fine bed. Most of the time, he settled for sleeping in the barn with the horses, so the occupants of whatever town he was in wouldn’t feel that their women and children were in immediate danger of being eaten or stolen away in their sleep.

“Geralt?”

“Yen?” The words felt treacly and strange on his lips, and when he opened his mouth to speak, a revolting seal of spittle and dirt peeled apart, leaving him feeling raw.

“You must tell me what happened now, unless you wish that I should search your thoughts for it instead. I don’t want to accidentally poison you in an effort to help you.”

“You’re sure?”

Yennefer chuckled at that, and Geralt could hear the soft whoosh as she slipped out of her outer robe, and the sound of her bare feet making impact with the floorboards. She approached him, wearing only a soft, white shift, and placed a hand to his forehead. It was unbearably hot, and Geralt pulled back from her touch, cursing himself as he did so. The scent of lilac and gooseberries washed over him.

“As sure as I can be. Now tell me what happened before you’re too insensible to recount it properly.”

“Leshen. Was on some nobleman’s daughter’s lands. Said he would kill her if I didn’t return within three days with proof that the job was done. Said he would make me kill her myself, actually, seeing as how she was of no more use to him.”

“A pox on all men and their thrice-damned pride. Though I was more inclined to know how you allowed yourself to get into such a deplorable state.”

“Haven’t been sleeping. It was a long journey…to the coast.”

“Gods, Geralt, don’t pass out yet. Look at me, please. That’s it. Have you taken any elixirs for your wounds?”

“Ran out,” the witcher could feel her hand on his cheek, and she was drumming her fingers against his browbone, probably in an effort to keep him awake and talking, “Didn’t have time…before the leshen.”

“Ah.”

It occurred to Geralt then that he should probably provide Yennefer with some sort of instruction as to how to treat his wounds, but he was imply beyond the point where he could muster the words to do so. It was an effort to keep his eyes open, to keep his breathing even. A blanket was draped over top of him, and he only closed his eyes for a moment, but when he opened them, his clothes were gone, and he was shivering frightfully.

“Yen…where am I?”

There was a gentle shuffling noise, like someone getting up from a chair. Geralt’s medallion, pressed flush between his overheated chest and the sheets, vibrated vigorously.

_I’ve just stepped out for a moment, to meet with your contractor. Try to rest. I’ll not be gone much longer._

The voice was undoubtedly Yen’s, but it spoke only inside the witcher’s mind. He was sure, under different circumstances, he would have balked at the violation. As it was, there were stars above Geralt’s eyes, so close he felt he could have reached out and touched them. This was odd, because he was sure he was indoors. His dislocated shoulder had been set to rights and bound to his chest in a sling, but it ached horribly. He suppressed a groan and tried to roll onto his back, with very little success. The stars didn’t disappear. They began to shift instead, and then Ciri was there, and she took his hand. The hand that, moments ago, had been in a sling. Geralt sighed and allowed her to pull him upright. She was smiling.

“Come, Geralt! Come with me. I have something to show you.”

He followed her without question. There were pyres all about them, the pyres of a great battle, and the rotting smell of bodies filled Geralt’s nostrils. In the distance, a woman crouched, a great Zerrikanian bow slung across her back, and her dark hair falling before her face. Ciri pulled him away, though he felt drawn to her somehow. An ache passed through his knee and elbow, a phantom pain of an injury he had never received.

“Just a little further. Follow me!”

Ciri sounded overjoyed, so out of place amidst the burning bodies and screams of those who teetered on the border between life and death. Geralt was very hot, and he took a moment to rid himself of his coat, tossing it to the side. He had the feeling that he would not need it again.

They came to a halt before a post, jutting forth from the earth. More than halfway up was another plank, nailed perpendicular to the first and forming a cross. Upon it was a man who had been flayed, his skin rent from his flesh, leaving a marbled pattern that Geralt associated with high-quality raw steaks. As they watched, the whole spectacle lit on fire, rushing forth in a great blast of heat so strong that it blew like a foul wind onto Geralt’s face. Ciri turned to him.

“Don’t you see? Don’t you see what will happen if you don’t find me? Without you, I have the power to achieve all this. And without you to guide me to my destiny, this is what will happen to me. Please, Geralt, don’t let that happen. Don’t leave me alone here.”

As she spoke, a girl with a red cap and short, spiky brown hair took Ciri’s other hand and yanked her out of Geralt’s grip.

“We missed you, Ciri,” the girl said, giving a devilish smile and turning Ciri in her arms, “Come, let’s celebrate. Let’s celebrate our victory together.”

She enveloped Ciri in a kiss, and dragged her off, laughing like a child. Geralt was left alone, staring after them. And then he rolled over, found himself lying down, a hand pressed against his brow.

“Geralt? Dammit, you’re shaking. Here, lie still and I’ll but some salve on those bites. They’ll only become more infected if you keep scratching at them.”

“Yen…”

“Yes. Lie still, I’m going to help you roll over. I didn’t see the cut on your head, and now it’s making you more ill.”

“Yen…what happened?”

“Don’t you know?”

“With Ingolfur…what happened?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re well. Don’t worry, I was more than just in my appraisal. Now, you must sleep. Your lack of rest is slowing your healing, making your body more susceptible to infection. Here, I made something to help you…”

She lifted the witcher’s head the smallest amount, making the strange starry wood of the ceiling swirl around him. He felt a mug being pressed to his lips, and then there was a taste of valerian on his tongue. Valerian to help him sleep, and something else, perhaps birch bark, for the pain and infection? He couldn’t think straight.

“Yen…I…”

“Stop your chattering. There’ll be plenty of time for it when you’re well. Would you like me to stay with you?”

“I…yes. Please.”

There were another few rustling sounds. A soft, warm wind blew against Geralt’s sweaty forehead as Yennefer extinguished the candle that must have been lighting up the room, for they were suddenly plunged into darkness. When Yennefer slipped into bed next to Geralt, snuggling against his good shoulder and the base of his neck, he could feel she was completely naked against him. She threw a leg over both of his, and dabbed absently at his feverish forehead.

“Go to sleep,” she said again, much softer now, “I’ll not have left when you wake.”

The witcher wanted to fight it. He so wanted Yen, lying beside him as she was now. He so wanted to remember this when he woke, to remember the smell of her soft hair and the way her face felt nestled at his shoulder. His fingers trailed down the bumpy curve of her once-imperfect spine, and he sighed. Then, he slept.

There were hushed sounds, like those of a conversation, the next time Geralt found himself to be fully present. His shoulder ached abominably, as did his head, and he winced when sunlight flooded his pupils. They were not contracting voluntarily or involuntarily at the moment, it seemed. A damnable inconvenience. He couldn’t see for shit.

The hushed conversation continued on for some time, during which the witcher determined that he was both too hot and too cold, had tried to free himself of whatever heavy pelts were laid over top of him several times, only to discover he couldn’t seem to budge them. His arms were stuck fast by his sides, heavy, swollen. The fabric itched against his skin. A sense of panic bubbled up within him, though he tried to quell it, knowing it to be idiotic. Yen was here. Surely, if he was unable to move, Yen would have found a way to reverse it. It must simply have been that he was too weakened by…something. There, his mind drew a blank. He sighed tiredly and listened to the distant burble of conversation. It seemed to be getting more heated, and suddenly he was struck by an urge, that there had been something important that Yennefer had done for him, that she needed to tell him about. He struggled against the sheets again, but got nowhere, and fell back, panting. There was a distant patter of bare feet on wooden planks, and then the door creaked open.

“Oh. You’re awake. Are you quite lucid?”

He shrugged. He really wasn’t sure. The planks of the ceiling were sliding in and out of place, and the whole room smelled of roses and chamomile tea and rosin. Dandelion’s scents, though the bard was not present, nor had he been. His shoulder hurt as well.

“Yen…what happened?”

He still couldn’t see her, but there was a shift in the air, and he could tell even without his sight that she had stiffened.

“Don’t you remember?”

“Some, yes.”

“It will come back with time. And since you haven’t deigned to tell me the whole story, I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more than that you were exceptionally foolish.”

“Mhmm,” Geralt held out his good arm, “Come here?”

She nestled down into his side once again, her customary scent following along with her. Geralt breathed it in, wondering if perhaps it was laced with some sort of pain-dulling properties. The thought was a pleasant one. He felt bruised all over.

“Who were you talking to?” He asked after some time. Yennefer stirred, as though she might have been asleep.

“Geralt, you’re shivering. The fever’s not left you yet.”

“Don’t avoid the question. Who was it?”

A sigh, followed by some more rustling and then something pleasantly warm was slipped in by his feet. He sighed sleepily, and Yennefer stayed sitting up next to him.

“A colleague. Helping me to…collect something I require.”

“Yennefer.”

“Hush. You’re exhausted and unwell. Can we not leave such dreary matters for when you’re more capable of discussing them?”

She leaned over him then, her dark hair brushing against his exposed, sensitive skin and her sweet smell washing over him. He breathed deeply, and the warm lip of a mug was pressed up against his lips.

“I’ll tell you when you’re stronger, Geralt. Right now you need to rest.”

Licking his chapped lips, the witcher recognized the sweet flavour of a magically enhanced sleeping brew. He squinted up at Yennefer, a vague askance in his eyes. She seemed to understand, but did not relent or remove the mug from his lips.

“It will help you sleep. Please, don’t fight it.”

She was rarely so gentle with him, he thought dizzily. Gone was all the derisiveness and sarcasm that normally characterized their interactions. Normally, such softness only came to the sorceress in the hours after they made love, when she was basking in the gentle glow of the early morning, half asleep, and she would curl into Geralt’s arms and murmur softly to him, though he never understood what she said, not truly. Like now, his mind was usually too fuzzy then, overcome by the scent of her hair and the feeling of her warm body pressed so tightly against his it seemed almost as though they would merge into one. He took a sip of the warm mixture, and a strange buzz trembled down his limbs. He felt like he was shaking. Perhaps he was. The fever left from the insect bites was still clinging desperately to his body.

“It will help with the pain, as well. You’ve hit your head. I’ll try to heal it a bit while you sleep.”

“Don’t need to, Yen. I know…healing magic. It’s tiring.”

“Never mind. I’ve the strength for it.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt’s head ached. _Yen shouldn’t waste her effort on me,_ he thought tiredly, _she’ll only regret it later._ But he was getting dizzier now, and he felt as though he was floating above the mattress he was lying on. Yen’s hand was in his hair, twisting through it comfortingly, even though it pulled a bit on the head wound he had forgotten about. It wasn’t paining him overly much anymore, though; it must have been something in the draught she had given him.

* * *

When he next awoke, the witcher felt very tired, but his head was not paining him anymore, and he no longer felt so cold. His body was heavy and exhausted; an effect of not sleeping for so many days, he was sure. And his skin was still prickling uncomfortably, itching and feverish. He stretched a bit, wincing when his shoulder twinged, and opened his eyes.

There were no more stars swirling on the ceiling above him now. The boards had rematerialized, and were solid. The delirium must have left him while he was drugged, he thought. Perhaps Yennefer had brought down his fever as well.

Turning, he saw the sorceress next to him. She was slumped on a chair, eyes gently shut, lashes brushing against her pale cheeks as she breathed slowly. She did not look dishevelled, but then, she never truly did. There was a tiredness about her now, though. It was rare for her to sleep so deeply, and he felt a sort of fondness at watching her now, weakened as she was.

_Take her hand. She shouldn’t wake, not now. Not when she’s tired herself so completely healing me._

Geralt couldn’t force his hands to move, though. They were firmly held down underneath the furs that had been piled on top of him while he slept. The best he could manage was to get his hands to twitch slightly, and he clenched his fists tightly, frustrated at his own debilitation. Yennefer stirred when she did so, blinking awake slowly, stretching her slender arms above her head and taking note that the witcher’s eyes were open. Her lips quirked upwards, and Geralt noticed that she had wiped off the rouge she was wearing on them earlier.

“You slept a long while,” she said, her voice vaguely husky from sleep in the way that Geralt loved so much to listen to, “How are you feeling.”

“Better. Were my wounds troublesome?”

“Less so your wounds than the fact that your body was too debilitated to heal from them. How many days did you go without sleep?”

“Many. Don’t get up.”

She nodded, as though she had expected as much, and eased herself back down into the chair that she had been about to vacate.

“I’ve missed you, Yen.”

She flicked her hand upwards a bit, and a lantern hanging from the ceiling came alive with a violet light. It played off her eyes, and Geralt thought it was cruel, to highlight herself like that when she knew he was not able to gather her up in his arms the way he wanted to. Though perhaps she did not want that. Her mind seemed to change by the day, with him subjected to her whims, even after months of being apart.

“And I you, Geralt. Though I wish we had not met like this.”

“Hm. The feeling is mutual, I’ll assure you. Thank you for finding me. I’m not sure I would have survived the night alone in that damned place, let alone trying to get myself back to the fortress on time.”

“Indeed. You can rest assured it’s all been…dealt with.”

“Yen. I know when you’re lying.”

“Not lying so much as not disclosing the whole truth. Ingolfur got what he deserved.”

Geralt sat up then, though he didn’t make it very far and ended up swaying dizzily as Yennefer helped him to lean back against the headboard of the bed. He focused his breath for a few moments, trying to swallow back a sudden and violent nausea that swirled in the pit of his stomach.

“Are you going to be ill?” A bowl was pushed into his lap, and he vomited, unwell and feeling as though his guts had been tied up in knots. When he was finished, Yen lifted the bowl from his lap using some sort of chaotic gale, and had it dump itself outside an open window. She slipped into bed next to him, tucked his hair back behind his ears, and he came to rest against her shoulder, exhausted. It took some time before he regained the ability to speak.

“Did you kill him, Yen?” The witcher’s voice was even raspier now, and he winced at the hideousness of it more than the slow turning of his stomach. He was surprised that Yennefer had chosen to remain at his side while he was like this. There was no romance in his current state. Though, despite her constant complaints, the sorceress’s romantic predilections were as changeable as coastal winds.

“Geralt, can you not leave it for a moment? Your knowledge of the events will not change what happened.”

_She’s hiding something from me, as though she doesn’t want to cause me pain. What could possibly cause me pain, that she would be willing to hide? Yen isn’t one for mincing her words._

“Tell me what happened, please.” The witcher clenched his hand. It was shaking, he realized, though he couldn’t guess why. Suddenly, it felt as though the breath had been stolen from his chest. The breathing against his ear stuttered ever so slightly, and he looked up, surprised.

“There was a child with him, was there not? A girl, rather reminiscent of Ciri?”

Geralt nodded. Somehow, before the words ever exited Yennefer’s mouth, he knew what had happened. They had been too late.

“I took a portal to tell him that you had completed the contract, and that I was to be your proxy to collect your pay. I was deposited in a hall that was so cold…it was like a shard of ice through my very centre. And when I turned about, he was standing there, robed only in blood. It had dried to his skin and was flaking off about him, and the whole place reeked of it. In his hand, he had a dagger. And at his feet were the pieces of the girl.”

“Pieces?” Geralt had lost the ability to form cohesive sentences. His nausea was back.

“Her arms and legs were rent from her body, as was her head. He had cut her hair from her scalp, and her eyes from her face. When I arrived, he was in the process of…mutilating her. Destroying any piece of her that could have made her someone else’s. When I asked him why, he said there was no longer any point in her being beautiful. That she had failed him, and the last thing she could do was bring him a brief moment of ecstasy before he cast her off for good.”

“Did he…”

“He did.”

Geralt was trembling again, though it had nothing to do with the fever that was still prickling at his abused skin. Yennefer wrapped an arm about his shoulders, careful not to squeeze too hard. She never held him like this, not unless he asked for it. It occurred to him that perhaps he had. Or perhaps they were both merely thinking of another girl, with golden hair, who could very well be meeting a similar fate.

“I have to leave,” Geralt grunted after some time spent in silence, “I need to find her before someone else does.”

“Who?”

“Ciri. I was a damned fool, and now a girl is dead. I won’t let it happen again. She needs me to find her.”

Yennefer’s arms tightened around his shoulders then, and when he looked up, her eyes were liquid and glistening in the amethyst glow of the lantern.

“You’re barely on your feet. And I’ve discovered on good authority that Ciri is well, for the moment. My informants in the North say that she was sighted several weeks ago, and I performed a charm to check on her wellbeing while you were sleeping. Just to be sure that nothing had gone amiss in the meantime. You’re no use to her like this, Geralt. You’ve run yourself into the ground, pushed yourself past all reasonable limits. I should like very much…if you were to stay with me. For now.”

“What about the shard of ice?” The witcher asked bitterly, “Have I not yet to prove myself to you? Have I not betrayed your trust?”

“A conversation for another day. Sleep, recover your strength. You need to rest if you intend to find Ciri.”

Yennefer seemed so soft, right now, but Geralt did not want to sleep. He pulled himself upright, painfully. She looked at him, unsurprised, her even gaze boring holes into him that seemed to burn coldly.

“I’ve missed you, Yen.”

She did not seem flustered by this, but she leaned over and took his hand, which was swollen and blistered with insect bites. Leaning over to the bedside table, she dipped her slender fingers into a pot of salve, and rubbed it gently over the inflamed skin. He poorly suppressed a groan of relief. He hurt all over.

“It has been lonely without you. I appreciate your moody witticisms on occasion.”

He chuckled a bit at this, though a nagging at the back of his brain said that he would not have had he not been so fevered still.

“And I yours. Dammit, Yennefer, I ache all over.”

“Do you feel ill?”

“A bit. I couldn’t take any food.”

“A shame. You look as though you haven’t eaten properly in weeks. You’ve always been slender, Geralt, but you’re pared down to nothing more than muscle and bone.”

“Surely, you aren’t worried for my wellbeing.”

“Always, Geralt.”

He looked up then, surprised. Yennefer met his eyes just as steadily as always, a little smile playing at her lips.

_You know I do,_ her voice whispered inside his mind, _and I know you do, too. Do not test me, witcher._

He chuckled again, tiredly. She snuggled against him, allowing him to rest his head against the gentle curve of his neck, and continued to rub the salve up his arms and neck. It soothed the witcher’s burning skin, and prickled softly. The gentle scent of mint and eucalyptus filled the air, and Geralt felt his sinuses clear rather abruptly. He sniffed, and Yen jerked her shoulder.

“Don’t be foul. I’ll find you a handkerchief if you need it.”

“Fine.”

Geralt smiled at a distant memory of carrying Ciri on his shoulders in Brokilon Forest. The way she had been afflicted by a cold, and the delight she had shown when he had taught her how to clear her nose onto the ground. The way her big, green eyes had shone as she imagined showing off her new skill before her grandmother at court.

“What’s made you smile? Here, take this before you start dripping on my sheets.”

“Ciri. The first time I met her. Thank you.” He cleared his nose, not in the way that he had taught Ciri. He was sure Yen wouldn’t have taken kindly to that. She smiled though; she must have been reading his memories. Normally, this would have irked him, but now he felt shaky and weak and too tired to explain the whole story.

“She knew even then. Though perhaps she did not have the words to tell you.”

“I think I knew as well, even before I knew who she was.”

They lapsed again, for some time. Geralt was very tired, and still feeling sick. He vomited several more times, apologizing after each, but Yen waved him off. She got a wicked smile on her face when she emptied the bowl into the street and people shouted in outrage below. The witcher got a weak chuckle out of it as well, though he thought it was rather cruel. Most folk in Vizima waded through shit on a daily basis already, there was no need to add vomit to the mix as well. Though at least what ailed him was not contagious.

In the mid-afternoon, Geralt’s fever came back, and he still had no potions to ease it. It started with a simple shivering, and progressed with a coldness that settled into his very bones. He trembled and shook and raved, and at some point, he asked Yennefer to hold him, to stave off the shaking. She wrapped her slender arms around his shoulders, rubbed a warm hand up and down his back.

“Yen…”

“Hush. You’re not well.”

“Yen…where’s Ciri? I…I need to talk to her.”

“She’s not here. No, don’t get up. You’re very sick, try to lie still.”

His heart rate increased, pounding in his ears until Yen muttered a word in his ear, soft, with her breath tickling at his sweaty hair. Geralt’s heart slowed then, clenching and fighting against the chaos that bound it and kept it from bursting from his chest. He tried to thrash his way out of Yen’s grip, and she murmured again. He found himself bound at the wrists and ankles, though when he looked, there were no bonds there. His medallion hummed, making his teeth chatter. It was utterly miserable, and he felt so sick. Throughout it all, the sorceress was gentle. She held him. To his memory, she didn’t leave him once. Perhaps she simply couldn’t bear to allow him to thrash about on her sheets unsupervised. Or perhaps it was that she couldn’t bear to leave him alone in the dark. In his delirium, Geralt rather hoped it was the latter.

His sickness did not last nearly as long the second time. At some point, the witcher remembered Yennefer slipping some more of the magical sleeping draught between his lips. He had felt dizzy then, and fallen into a fitful rest. When he woke, the fever was gone, and he was in a good deal less pain, save for his head, which pounded miserably again. He sighed. Yennefer’s velvety back was pressed up against him, and he trailed his fingers up her spine. She gave a content little hum and turned onto her back, eyes focusing lazily on him.

“Good morning.”

“Morning.” His lips twitched into a little smile. He rubbed at his temples, wishing his headache would go away. For the first time in days, he wanted Yen. All of her. Annoyed, he pinched the bridge of his nose as well. It did nothing to alleviate the pain.

“Are you feeling better today? You’re much less pale than you were.”

“Mhmm.”

Shortly after, Geralt felt a pang in his chest when he remembered what Yennefer had told him of the fate of Asdis and her father. Briefly, he wondered if Kristjan had managed to get away from whatever havoc the sorceress had no doubt wreaked on the castle. He tried not to picture Ingolfur with his daughter’s corpse, but the image sat in his mind, unmoving and unbidden.

“Stop it, Geralt. You’ll bring yourself nothing but hurt. There was nothing you could have done, and you know as well as I that the way of the world is often far too cruel. Was it not cruel to us?”

“So that it would not need to be cruel to others, yes.”

“You know that’s not true. Life is not a scale to be balanced. We cannot hope to take suffering from others at the expense of our own happiness, when what happens to others is nothing but unpredictable.”

“Cynical, for someone who can see the future.”

“You know I can’t. Not truly. And definitely not accurately. Don’t try to tip the scales, Geralt. They have never been balanced, and never will be.”

Yennefer gave him something to drink, and he took it with shaking hands. Fennel root and garlic, for the pain. Nothing else. Perhaps he was getting better, he thought.

“A dreary conversation, for so early in the day. Can’t we discuss something else? What brought you here? I seem to recall you complaining of the stench of shit in large cities.”

“It can’t be avoided,” she said, wrinkling her small nose ever so slightly, a slender hand taking the mug and placing it back on the bedside table, “And it’s a damn good thing I was close enough to sense that there was something amiss with you. I hate to think how you would’ve managed to drag yourself out of that swamp all alone in the condition you were in. What was it you fought?”

“Leshen. And you’re avoiding the question again.”

“Indeed. Perhaps there’s a reason for my reticence?”

“In front of me?” Geralt’s head was feeling a good deal better, as was his bad shoulder and the lingering soreness from the insects. However, whatever Yen had given him made him feel dizzy and out of sorts, as though his mouth was speaking the words that came directly from his mind. The normally calculated filter that he kept in place was nowhere to be found.

“Ha. You have always been secretive.”

“Indeed.”

“I was sent here by the lodge. They asked me to keep an eye out for a man, a supposed spy for the Nilfgaardian Empire. He’s been hunting Ciri as well as some rebels for some time now, and I was alerted to the fact that he could very well be on her trail.”

Geralt was up in a moment, as much as he was able, head spinning as he leaned forwards and cradled it in his palms. Yennefer sighed exasperatedly.

“Where is he?” The witcher finally asked between slow, heavy breaths out of his nose, which was slightly less clogged than he remembered it being previously.

“Hence my reticence. What is a leshen, anyways? I’ve heard stories, but nothing concrete. And you are a veritable compendium of monster lore.”

“Yennefer.”

“I shan’t tell you, so there’s no point in getting yourself worked up about it. I find you after months apart, half dead, and you expect me to simply send you off on your next suicidal errand without so much as taking the time to make sure you’re well first? I can’t justify it, and Ciri certainly won’t be better off for you dying before you reach her.”

“That the only reason?” There was a mischievous undertone to the witcher’s words that he never would have allowed had he been completely himself.

“What do you want, Geralt? For me to admit that I care for you, and I don’t wish to see you run headfirst into what could very well be a trap, after weeks of not caring for yourself? Very well. I care for you. Whether because destiny is a cruel bitch or because I myself am drawn to you, I care for you. And I won’t send you stumbling off into the night to get yourself murdered before you can bring Ciri home safely. Not just for her sake, but also for yours.”

The witcher found himself utterly bereft of words, then. As eloquent as an ox, stuttering and feeling suddenly very hot again. Yen gave a little smile, as though she was a bit pleased with herself for having left him at a loss for words.

“Stay until you’re well. I’ll keep you updated as to what results with the spy. As it is, he’s probably still weeks behind Ciri. And she’s clever. She’ll keep herself safe.”

Suddenly wanting nothing more than to have Yennefer close to him, Geralt grit his teeth and eased himself all the way up in bed. He opened his good arm in invitation, and she nestled at his shoulder willingly again.

“You worry me when you’re ill, Geralt. As much as you may infuriate me, I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

_That’s the closest she’s ever come to saying she loves me. Perhaps this has all been worth it, after all. For Yennefer, such a realization is no small sacrifice. And she doesn’t make sacrifices lightly. Can’t bear to, in fact._

_How Ciri would laugh to see the two of us now. Old and decrepit, searching after her. She always did like to run._

**Author's Note:**

> Toss a kudos or comment to your writer?


End file.
